Many of Horror
by misswhiteblack
Summary: He knew it was a foolish and vain wish, that he could be redeemed like a villain turned hero in a song ... Rated T for the moment, may develop into an M ...


**Author's Note:** _Well, this is my first outing in the ASOIAF fandom but I decided it was about time that I ventured this way. This will be a multichaptered story but won't be a long one as I have a million and one projects that I am working on at the moment. I hope you'll forgive me for that and that you will enjoy this first chapter._

_P.S. - It seems customary to give a disclaimer here but as we're on a fanfiction website I'm going to assume that you realise I don't own anything, unless of course I am George R R Martin in disguise!_

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**Many of Horror**

Darling, I'm with you, always around you  
darling, I feel you under my body  
give me shelter, show me heart  
watch me fall apart, watch me fall apart.  
_- Only Love, Ben Howard_

**.**

There was something about the vow that made Jaime Lannister detest it, something about the way his own, albeit messed up, honour would not let him break it. He didn't understand. He had been a member of the Kingsguard, sworn to defend the King, a vow he had taken so seriously, until the day he had stabbed Aerys, the Mad King, in the back. Still, this vow he swore, now more than once, he kept it close to him, like it could redeem all his past failures, all his past horrors, maybe even redeem all of him. He knew it was a foolish and vain wish, that he could be redeemed like a villain turned hero in a song. Songs were for young girls who believed in handsome knights and gallant princes, true love and forever.

It was funny how that train of thought brought him back round to that vow he swore, that vow that itched at the back of his mind, never letting him sleep properly for fear he was wasting time, for fear the vow would be not be fulfilled by a blade across his neck. He trusted the wench, trusted her enough to sleep near her in the darkness of night, trusted her enough to have his back in a fight and he acknowledge that he had more trust in her than he had ever had in his father or even in his sister. He wondered if everyone could turn mad on power. His sister, Cersei, with her golden smiles and "come hither" eyes that could make him rock hard in a matter of seconds, the madness was in her now. He could see it, even if she could not, in the back of her eyes, dancing in delight and fear. The madness of power, he could not endure it. He did not want to think of her, darling Cersei, not the way she was now. Maybe it was the way she had always been. He wouldn't admit it but that thought scared him.

He didn't understand why these thoughts came to him know, it the darkness and the cold, with the wind sweeping about him. Why did he ponder on his own evils and the evils of other, surely he was damned and there was not much else to say about the situation? He acknowledge that part of himself that warred against these new thoughts because surely he'd only done the things he done for his family, for love but he squashed that part down, ignoring it, because he didn't believe that he should be spared from the horrors he had committed.

He'd never been a great thinker. He'd always left that to his father, to Tyrion, to Cersei. He could really remember his mother, maybe she had left the deep thinking, the plotting, to others or maybe he took after his Uncle Kevan, pliant and willing to follow his father's orders? He didn't think it was either one. He was a soldier, through and through. He belonged on the battlefield with a sword in his hands and blood spraying his face. Soldiers took orders from Lords, not the other way around. He had joined the Kingsguard for that, for the bloodlust that raged in him, for the glory that came with such a noble position, even against his father's fury. Joining the Kingsguard was not just to keep him close to Cersei, his Cersei.

He had no time for that game they all played, the Game of Thrones. He had no patience for the arse kissing and the cunningness that came with playing such a game. His father had been a major player and two of his children had followed in those footsteps but not Jaime, he preferred the roar of battle to the whispers of court.

"What the hell are you doing?"

The wench's voice hissed at him through the darkness, cutting through the wind so it could reach him where he crouched behind a rock, trying not to be blown off the precipice. This was dangerous ground they stood on and not just in figurative sense, he meant it quite literally.

"I know you don't have the worry, wench, but I don't want the wind to carry me away," he told her mockingly, just trying to distract himself for the thoughts roving around in his head.

"I would not worry about that, Ser," she responded in kind, "for arrogance has swelled your head so much that I am certain it shall keep you on the ground."

He laughed, partly due to the dry tone that the Maid of Tarth used to berate him and partly due to relief that she did not focus immediately on the golden obscenity that was now his right hand. It was true enough that although the wind was harsh and quick up here, a golden hand would weigh him down enough that he should not get carried away like a leaf.

"Well met, My Lady," he answered her, having to shout over the howl that the wind gave just then. "I suppose we must press on."

Brienne did not answer him but he could almost picture the curt nod that she would have given him if he could see her. He was pleased at her jape. Since she had come to him, told him she had found Sansa Stark she had barely spoken, let alone smiled and japed. There was an ugly mark round her neck that looked as though someone had tried to hang her. That worried him and although he had asked Brienne would not utter a word. In fact, she turned positively glacial at the very mention of it, trying to hide it underneath the armour she wore. It was too high on her neck for that and Jaime's mind had already run through every possibility of who and how someone had overpowered her and strung her up. He did not see how she had escaped and it seemed she was not going to tell him on her own.

They pressed on, climbing higher, fighting against the cold and the wind, the noise that howled around them, freezing their ear until Jaime was almost certain that he would end up with frostbite. He snorted at the thought. When had he become such a woman? He'd been fighting in battles for long enough, living on battlefield surrounded by snow, sleeping in the woods under nothing but the trees and he had never thought of frostbite then. Still, since he had lost his right hand he had become more concerned with his health and welfare than when he had been younger, back then he was glory and ferocity, nothing could touch. At least, that was what he had believed.

The steady climb was tiring, the loose dirt causing them to slip back every few steps. They'd been on this evil, mountainous terrain for two nights now, sleeping under cover during the day and climbing further during the night. He could not risk being seen. Brienne could have maybe gained access on her own, claiming sanctuary. Her relationship with Lady Catelyn would surely have helped her in that endeavour but with him at her side. No one was about to admit the Kingslayer into their fortress, let alone the brother of the Queen Regent and Uncle of the King, especially when they had stayed out of the way for so long.

"Not long now," Brienne told him and Jaime could see she was right. Dark shapes, darker than the night around him had grown bigger and bigger until they towered over them. It wouldn't be long now. He wondered briefly whether the doors would be locked or whether they could slip in unnoticed and spirit her away.

The wench had hit the mark. They were at the door before the sun began to peek over the horizon but Jaime disliked the way the darkness was lessening and soon they would be visible to all. He watched as Brienne tried to shove the door, attempting to get them inside without having to call a guard. The door didn't budge. He stepped passed her, giving her a wide smirk which she rolled her eyes at, before raising his golden right hand and bashing it against the door, once, twice; three times.

"You just have to make yourself heard," the Maid of Tarth huffed at Jaime but he simply grinned at the scowl on her face. The noises of the door being unbarred could be discerned from behind the door and when it creaked open the pleasant face of a guard looked out warily from behind the door.

Jaime smacked him with the golden hand, effectively knocking him and then barged the door. It launched open and then shuddered as it hit the guard behind it, bringing him clattering to the ground. Brienne was in through the gap in the door quicker than he would have thought and when he followed he was just in time to see her bash the second guard over the head with the hilt of her sword. He crumpled onto the floor as Jaime drew his sword with his left hand, waiting for the rush of other guards.

He waited in silence. No other guards came rushing. There was no sound of movement in the halls beyond. He chanced a glance at Brienne, who was poised with her sword steady, ready as he was to meet a greeting party. Still, no one came. Eventually, the lowered the swords, glancing at each other in subtle messages that passed between them, unspoken words of agreement.

They moved together, edging forward with quiet intent. The dark hallways and corridors yielded no one to challenge them as they crept forward, trying to peer through the blackness, find out where they were going. In Casterly Rock, even in the palace in King's Landing, Jaime had prowled around in the darkness, seeking Cersei, knowing every turn he would make; every slab his foot passed over. Here though, here he knew nothing but the steady rhythm of their breathing; their footsteps on stone.

A door opened from nowhere, shinning candlelight across them and Jaime turned with swiftness that he hadn't though himself capable any more to grab a serving girl exiting the room. It took him no time at all to have her wrapped in his good arm, his sword daunting close to the skin of her neck. Brienne had fixed him with a glare which he ignored for the moment. He wasn't going to hurt her.

"Don't make a sound," he hissed threateningly into the frightened girl's ear. "Where are the lady's chambers?"

Brienne had agreed with him the night before when he had suggested that surprising Lysa and Petyr Baelish whilst they were sleeping would give them the upper-hand against them. Littlefinger might have been a clever man who used clever words but between himself and the wench, Jaime was more than certain that they could handle the likes of him and his new wife. From what Jaime had heard of Lysa Tully Arryn Baelish she was touched in the head. Like Aerys, what has she gone through here?

The serving girl showed them through the twisting hallways and corridors, her feet nimble and sure against the stone. She did not waver as Brienne kept a tight hold on her shoulder, keeping her in front of them. Once, Jaime reflect, once he would have been the one to hold her but now, with only one hand, he didn't have the resources to wield a sword and hold a girl at the same time. It was a diminishing thought.

They were ascending the stairs when he heard a noise. A wail, he thought, wondering briefly if it was not just the wind outside, blowing through crevices but then a scream followed high and sharp, and it made his heart start to pounding ferociously in his chest. He pushed past the serving maid, bloody pounding in his ears, worry turning his stomach. A girl would scream as such, out of fright. Where was she?

Brienne was not far behind him. He could hear her calling to him but he could not hear what she said. He burst into the room, sword held steady in his hand and then stopped, so suddenly that the wench almost knocked him down when she careered into him.

Lysa Baelish was not in the room. Instead a slip of a girl was standing on the bed, pressed right against the wall, staring down in horror and panic at the bed below. Petyr Baelish could not even look up at their entrance as he held a weakening hand to his neck. Everywhere there seemed to be blood. It seeped through his fingers, soaking the linens of the bed and a fine spray had shot across the front of the girl's shift. Jaime just looked on frozen as Brienne was in the doorway to the bed chambers, watching as Littlefinger, a master of the game, slipped away in front of him.

That makes this easier.

The dark haired girl on the bed was clutching a knife in her left hand, a tiny thing but sharp enough to kill a man obviously. Her slip was not the only thing the blood had touched, her hand was also covered and it was darkening as it dried. Jaime took a step further into the room as the dark haired girl gave a gasp, still staring down at Lord Baelish's lifeless body.

"Girl," he commanded his voice as steady as possible, "where is …"

He did not get to finish his question as the girl raised her head. Under the dark brown hair the pale face and ice blue eyes of Sansa Stark stared out at him.

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_Well there you have it. I hope you enjoyed it. So click the button and give me a piece of your mind, the nice piece preferably._

_Kerr x._


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